


Ragdolls

by yeaka



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:34:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22499959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Hank and Connor find the runaway.
Kudos: 51





	Ragdolls

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Detroit: Become Human or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Half the time, Connor’s like a newborn puppy—eagerly following Hank everywhere without any need for a leash, but the rest of the time, he’s an old, faithful partner that seems to have no trouble scampering ahead no matter what Hank tells him. Hank’s the _real_ cop—or at least, the organic one, the one that struggled through years at the academy and put in the leg work around the beat to work his way up to a badge—so really, Hank should get to go first. But Connor’s borderline indestructible and often reckless, and he marches ahead when he thinks he has a lead. 

Maybe it would be smarter if Hank hung back. Connor is, after all, _one of them_ —maybe he can slip right into the deviants’ nest and pretend he belongs. They might see his flashing LED and hold back bullets they’d happily sling right through Hank’s chest. But they also might realize he wears his uniform with pride, and maybe they could give him some sort of virus that would prevent CyberLife sending Hank a brand new Connor. Or just one without this Connor’s memories. Hank needs this Connor’s memories. He doesn’t care what anyone says, Connor has at least _some_ humanity in him, and that’s a precious thing.

So Hank follows, just like he would a human partner, providing unasked for backup. He holds his gun at the ready and slips deftly through the warehouse’s wide open door. He tries to be as quiet as possible, but he’s not feather-light like Connor is, and his footsteps echo shallowly throughout the filth-slicked chamber. Fading evening light fills in through the opening and the dust-clouded windows, but it’s mostly dark: plenty of shadows for suspects to burrow into. Hank catches a glimpse of Connor at the end, standing tall and perfectly in tact.

Hank’s cautious when creeping to his side anyway, just in case. Then Hank realizes what Connor’s looking at. He doesn’t aim his gun like he probably should. 

They’ve found not one, but _two_ runaway androids, if the state of them is anything to go by—they’re both covered in soot, dried blood in both colours, stray cobwebs and mottled skin; one’s missing half his face, the other parts of his arms. They’re huddled together, the blond’s head on the bald one’s shoulder, the other leaning back against the first. Their knees are half drawn up to their chests, their shattered fingers intertwined between them. Both their eyes are closed, though the blond has one half open, obviously sightless, torn amongst a scar so raw that Hank can see his circuitry. White plating shows through peeled back pale skin. The other one’s dark flesh is littered with burn marks and a long, jagged cut across his forearm. They’ve obviously both been brutalized.

It’s not hard to guess who hurt them. _Guilt_ swells in Hank’s chest, even though he’d like to think he’s one of the _good_ humans. If there even is such a thing. Then again, he’s a total wreck, so maybe humanity really should be replaced.

He finds himself whispering, “Are they...?”

“They’re powered down,” Connor answers, equally as quiet. “They’ll come back online when their systems have regenerated enough power. It’s sort of like...”

“Sleeping,” Hank fills in. They’re _sleeping_ together, curled up together in an abandoned warehouse. Hank and Connor were only chasing one suspect, and Hank doesn’t have the ability to analyze which is which—the other one is just an accident. But when Hank thinks about it, there have to be plenty of androids who’ve been torn apart by human hands. 

Slowly, Connor murmurs, “We’re supposed to...” He trails off, but Hank knows the rest. They’re supposed to turn the androids in. 

They don’t look like homicidal maniacs. They look like trauma victims who’ve finally found some peace in a fellow survivor’s arms. They’re not roaming the streets to hunt humans down, but far out in the industrial district, off the beaten path in a long abandoned building. They’re not hurting anyone. And if Hank brings them in, their trauma will all be dug up again, and then they’ll both be taken apart, because androids don’t get to claim self-defense.

In that moment, Hank makes up his mind. He tells Connor, “Let’s go.”

Connor looks at him. It’s telling how much Connor hesitates to ask, “Should we reactivate them...?”

Connor has only one over-arching mission. All of his programming goes into that one objective. But Hank’s been around to see so many little moments of rebellion, where Connor still _behaves_ , but perhaps not quite as swiftly as he should. He looks at Hank like he _wants_ help breaking his protocols. 

Hank tries to be strong enough to give that order, strong enough to overrule CyberLife and the codes in Connor’s head. He answers curtly, “No.” 

Connor nods. 

He follows Hank out, and at least the paperwork’s easy when they get back, because Hank returns with empty hands and an even clearer conscience.


End file.
